Seperation Anxiety

Editor: So, how are we doing?
Former editor: It's like letting the inmates run the asylum.

I didn't cry when I left the office on the last night. I wanted to. Desperately. But I didn't. I couldn't. I wanted to cry for everything I'd given it. For everything I had put into it. For the fact that it was over and that I wasn't ready to leave. I wasn't done, but it was time to go. In the pictures from that night, my coeditors and I look like we were at a funeral. It was the end of life as we knew it.

Even then, as I sat willing the tears to come, I didn't know how hard it would be. To be done with it. To trust others to take care of it. To watch them make their own mistakes. To not have to go to the office every night. To know that I am not essential to anything right now. And then to know also that they don't need me. They don't need my advice and they don't want it, don't ask for it. I have nothing for them anymore. I have no place there anymore.

I didn't know how hard it would be to call something my own for so long and then to have to give it all up.